


The Larks Still Bravely Singing Fly

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Brother-Sister Relationships, Child Loss, Death, Dubious Morality, Dysfunctional Family, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Heartbreak, Loss, Mental Breakdown, Middle Ages, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Revenge, Rivalry, Suggestions of incest, Unrequited Love, Violence, Warging, Wargs, Ye faint of heart do not wander these plains, blame, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5292206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The death of Rickard Stark in the wake of his eldest son's disappearance is regarded by all the realm as a tragedy.  Pity is on the lips of everyone for those that are no longer of this world. Yet no one thinks to ask after those who remain.</p><p>Forced by her father's death into facing more than one unpleasant truth, Lyanna finds that sometimes staring into the darkness shall only lead to it staring back. At the same time, the newly minted Lord Eddard Stark struggles to keep the world together even as it slips between his fingers.</p><p>AU! Recent tragedies culminating in the shaming of House Stark by the Crown lead to Rickard Stark's death. The wolves of Winterfell are left without guidance in a winter far darker than any they have known.</p><p>Or, Rhaegar Targaryen is more than willing, when push comes to shove, to turn the realm upside down in the pursuit of greatness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From The Other Side

**Author's Note:**

> Title from John McCrae's "In Flanders Fields"

Snow crunched softly, breaking under the weight of human bodies moving atop the thin layer, crowding, pushing one into the other, not even in such moments of solemnity. Somewhere at the back a mother scolded her child lightly, her words muffled. Two tall figures scurried along the path, arms in arm, dark cloaks swirling in their wake. Somewhere up ahead a light flickered gently, swaying to and fro.

The tumult slowly came to a halt, waves upon waves of individuals stopping as if at the silent command of unseen gods.

Along the path two pairs of men came carrying a wide, carved box. Haggard faces and tearstained cheeks observed the procession. A hush fell over those gathered around the snow banks. Wide eyes, some glazy, some bright and burning, followed the progress with thinly disguised unease. The four men paid no mind, not even when a boy came running in their wake, breathing heavily. One of the woman hurried behind him, helping him place the small branch with the one leaf hanging limp from a tired limb upon the smooth top of the coffin. 

Behind the boy came a young maiden. She held in her arms a bundle of thick, rough cloth, presumably carrying within it the needful things of the deceased. A wild mane of tangles fell down her back and wisps of it slashed across her face with every gust of the winter’s gale, dark lines against her wan complexion, serving only to emphasise the striking resemblance of the girl to a walking cadaver. The Stranger had a woman-child’s face, the nameless, figureless stranger that haunted dark corners at twilight.

The last to make his way along the path was a man, a youth with the start of a beard snaking along gaunt cheeks. Hollow eyes lingered upon the maiden preceding him. He carried not a thing in his arms, but at from belt a heavy sword dangled, the bared steel glinting, flashing its sharp edges like a wolf baring fangs at the prey.

Between the last two a gulf had opened, each on one edge, each unable and unwilling to reach out to the other. It could only be speculated what had caused the rift and why it was that neither would, even in present circumstances, be willing to forgive. 

All these breathing, living creatures made their way within the bowels on an old mound, past a stone gate and down cracked steps that had not seen the light of day in as much as a decade. Down, don they went, deeper and deeper within the realm of great kings and mighty lords, brave men and crazed men alike.

It made no matter if one had ruled a grand kingdom or a heap of ashes. All shared the same fate ultimately.

A bitter breeze swept through the cavernous funeral chamber, its shrill cry a mournful tune to accompany the heap of bones to its final resting place. Aside from the weeping of the wind, curling through the braches and spilling over stone stairs cobbled path there was nary a sound to be heard throughout the crypts.

If ever nature mourned the passing of so transient a creature as man then, like the window left with pretty babes in her rams, weeping children, squalling babes, like the new bride left in the harshness of daylight by a flighty husband, like the mother whose sons have gone off to war, like the daughter overlooked in favour of bloodshed and gold coffers and greatness too fleeting to be anything but a speck of dust upon the limitless ground of eternity, she kept her tears hidden away from sight. None had ever seen the expression of grief, nor heard the soft weeps of the abandoned. 

And why should nature mourn? What was man? The truth of it lied one, twice, thrice and many more times over before the eyes of those that were brave enough to face it. Grim, ghastly, stone carved faces stared with cold, dead eyes at those wailing without the gates of nothingness.

Lord Edwyle Stark’s face shone a warm, dull orange in the light of the torch, lower lips lost in the shadow of the upper. His heavy stone sword had struck the ground, spearing mayhap within the bowels of the earth, might be as far as the great hall of the forgotten. A smaller grave caught between his and little Brandon’s bore carved upon its lid the name of Lady Marna. In the right upper half the coat of arms of the Lockes of Oldcastle could still be made out despite the fact that the stone had crackled slightly, cutting the carving in half.

A bit ahead Willam Stark’s effigy towered over that of old Lord Beron. That son of House Stark had been a giant. It could well be seen when looking at his resting place. It was twice as wide as any other’s. Still, the wide almost jovial face despite the frown it had been arranged into, could not bring fright. Might be the true, flesh and blood Willam would have made a man tremble but his statue was nearly farcical.

These long since gone men were passed in favour of an empty spot. A whole had been dug in the ground, wide and deep, reminiscent of a chasm. The bottom was not apparent. Or mayhap the light’s shine was much too poor to make that out. The bones rattled within their box, startling the maiden. The youngest boy caught onto the female’s hand and pressed into her side. 

Four strong men lowered the coffin in its place. No words were spoken. The gods needed not to know anything of the one they allowed past the gates of the underworld, for certainly that was where the coffin would eventually end and the man within would soon be drinking with his forefathers.

The maiden stepped nearer to the edge of the pit. She gazed down into the darkness for one heartbeat, an interminable moment. Afterwards the bundle in her arms dropped in after the man and his coffin. Metal clanged and something chimed.

A first handful of earth followed.

The whole was filled with earth, slowly, ever so slowly, and a wide stone lid was lowered upon the resting place of Lord Rickard, son of Edwyle and Marna, of line Stark come, and to the frozen earth of the North returned. Every strong man eventually finds his way back to the earth that has spawned him.

Deafening silence rang out. It wrapped itself around those within its bosom, winding cruel fingers around pale, thin throats just waiting to be snapped.

One small hand rose in the air as the maiden’s body moved around that of the oldest youth and made for another grave. She knelt down until her upper body could be laid over the cool rough surface. Shoulders moved rhythmically, the up and down motions repeating with alarming frequency. Harsh breathing broke the silence.

“Lya.” The whisper reverberated through the wide chamber, tearing through the shroud of faint somnolence. The maiden continued on with her weeping, growing even louder, as if the name she’d been called by was encouragement enough.

“Lya,” was repeated again. The youngest went to her and bent down to catch the girl in his arms. “’Tis cold,” the same thin voice noted. “Too cold.” He remained bound to the female, his front pressed to her back as she spilled her tears over the unfeeling grave.

The oldest of the three swallowed with difficulty but determination burned in his face. He reached for the youngest and pulled him away. “Enough, Benjen. Lyanna, ‘tis more than enough. Rise, rise.”

When she did not make haste to comply, he merely stepped towards her and gently pulled her to her feet, dusting off her skirts. Specks of must and dots of dark matter were sprayed upon the canvas of her skirts. Red-rimmed eyes stared up at him, but her fingers wrapped around his and she allowed the brother to pull her into his side and guide her away from the scent of newly turned earth, the dampness of the crypts and the lingering taste of death.

Benjen took the girl’s other hand. “Your fingers are freezing.” He sniffled. “Mine are too.” He talked with the lack of awareness of a child/ But he was a child. Lyanna gazed at him and offered a wan smile.

“We are all freezing,” she said at a long last, squeezing her younger sibling’s hand.

Without, the crowd that had gathered looked at the three of them with wide, speculating eyes, wondering perhaps how the wolvelings howled in the absence of the great direwolf to lead them. But they had survived the death of a parent before.

Eddard guided them along the path, snow still crunching beneath his heavy boots.

In their wake mourners entered the crypt mayhap to have a few last words with the late Lord Stark. Shuffling, speech and senseless noise rose behind the trio. Neither turned to watch the gauche display. It was one thing to weep for a dead man, it was quite another to act a piece of mummery. Callow exhibitions had run rife these past few moon turns and for all the wolf siblings it had been quite enough.

One small child shot past them, carrying in one hand a bunch of blood red leaves, no doubt intending to give to her mother to burn. Might be she was the young daughter of a lesser house, for she bore no coat of arms to be seen. Despite the cold, her cheeks glowed with health. A heartening sight to most mind, but those of the Starks.

The main hall awaited their arrival. Aunt Branda who has stayed within on account of her violent coughing hurried towards them. She pulled Benjen in a crushing hug, wide arms wrapping tightly around the lad.

“You poor, poor dear,” she said, letting go of the boy who from time to time attempted to ease away from her. Ned was treated to much of the same, but he bore it with more stoicism. “I cannot imagine, I truly cannot.” The rest of her words jumbled together, lost in an incoherent discourse, She spoke with emotion, too much of it and too little sense. “Come, you must be exhausted.”

Lyanna was offered a softer variation of the embrace her brother had had. “You look like a ghost. And how cold you are.” Aunt Branda pinched her cheeks. “There, better.”

It was in no way better. It would never be better. How could it?

“Come along,” their aunt continued, dragging Lyanna in her wake. She stopped short a few paces forth and doubled over with a violent cough. The young girl gently rightened the woman. “Look at me, trying to aid when I am the one who needs to be led around.”

“Nonsense,” the daughter of Winterfell replied, her voice thick and scratchy from all the crying she’d done. “Let us sit.”

Most of the mourners returned within as well in no more than an hour’s time. They took wine and light food to solidify them against the harshness of winter, to hearten them in the face of death.

Eddard had seated himself upon their father’s old seat. He presided over the gathering with a steely gaze and a grimace. Benjen sat somewhere close by, only Lyanna had chosen to sit next to their aunt at one of the lower tables.

Offered a cup of wine, Lyanna took it to her bosom and stared into the red liquid. Her reflection gazed back at her, tousled tresses and a bright nose along with wet cheeks completed the portrait of the Old Wolf’s daughter.

Lyanna the worthless. A mirthless little chuckle cot caught in her throat, leaving her choking, gasping for air. Coughing it away, the cup slipped from her hands and the wine spilled all over the wide tiles at her feet. Lyanna the clumsy. Lyanna the kinslayer. Lyanna the blameworthy.

“You are shaking like a leaf,” noted someone, pressing something into her hands. Lyanna looked down. An embroidered kerchief was clenched between her fingers. “You must rest, Lady Lyanna.”

“Aye,” she murmured listlessly, brushing the wetness from her fingers. “I am tired. Only tired, is all.”

She staggered to her feet and from the corner of her eye caught sight of Ned climbing down the dais and walking towards her. Within moments a steadying hand was placed ‘neath her elbow. “Excuse us,” her brother spoke, “my sister is unwell.”

He led her away from the eyes of the Northerner lords and ladies.

The deserted hallway embraced brother and sister, humming at their familiar presence a familiar tune of howling winds and rustling leaves. But neither Ned nor Lyanna heard it. The keep quietened, as if in respect of the loss.

No more than a dozen spaces had they progresses when the sister burst into tears It was a desperate wail that tore itself from her throat, a cry of distress that seeped into her brother’s bones, burrowing deep within his heart. The maiden’s shoulders shook fiercely, her chest heaving with every sob that wracked her frame. Head bent into her brother’s shoulder, she murmured into the fur line of his cloak.

“Nay,” Eddard whispered back, arm encircling her wait. “Nay, ‘tis not true. Lya, never think that. Never.” His words made no matter to the distraught wounded she-wolf he held in his arms. Still, he pressed on, unwilling to allow his sole sister to shoulder the monstrous blame she thought hers. “Listen to me,” the new lord of the keep commanded.

Rarely had Lyanna listened to their father. Even rarer did she listen to any of her brother. “I know what I’ve done. You cannot placate me with sweet words, Ned. You cannot.” Her outburst was met with a wince and her brother’s arm slipping away from her.

Fingers dug into the yielding flesh of her arm and Ned dragged her along the hall towards the staircase. He pulled her in his wake, taking two steps at a time, forcing the slighter one into a hurried pace that nearly did not match his. Lyanna struggled to keep up with him and offered no protest when he took her to the lord’s solar. Like a doll of rags she allowed herself to be lead away, limp and dumb to the world, too caught up in her own grief.

Once within the privacy of the chamber, the door was shut and barred and the she-wolf found herself facing one of her own. The unhappy quiet wolf growled at the sight of her. “The gods know I cannot understand you. Would that you made sense, woman.”

Instead of answering, Lyanna dabbed the corner of her eye. “What more would you hear of me. You were there.” Obstinate and cruel and sad beyond words, that was what his sister was, sullen creature. Grief-filled eyes stared at him unyieldingly. She waited, standing before him like a pitiful beggar. She waited for absolution he could not give.

“I was there,” he admitted, soft voice barely carrying over the sound of her breathing. “I was there,” he spoke louder, colour flooding his face. “And I saw nothing.”

“Then you are blind, fool,” she chided without an ounce of shame. Cracked lips split open, the angry red of the wound harsh against the pale rosy hue. “Blind.”

Gnashing teeth and a half-bitten curse met her statement. “Shrew!” Ned accused. “That is what you are. Is it not enough for you that I have lost a brother and a father? Is it never enough with you, you shallow, spoiled, spiteful creature?” A thick vein drummed mercilessly at his temple.

A tremulous smile stretched the she-wolf’s lips. “Aye, shallow and spoiled and spiteful. That is what I am. I cannot change it.”

But that her brother could not take. Eddard hurried towards her and, catching her thin shoulders in his hands, shook her so hard the very teeth in her mouth rattles. “How dare you mock me?” he demanded, his grip growing painful. “For the love of the gods, woman, no one could have anticipated what happened to father.”

She did not believe him. Not for a moment. Ned could see it in the stubborn set of her chin and his anger blew over leaving behind only the bitterness of disappointment. “It is not your blame to shoulder. Father died because it was his time to go. Understand that.”

“And Brandon? Was it his time to go as well?” Lyanna questioned mercilessly. Had their brother been called away by the gods as well? Facing Eddard’s wrath was not something she had expected. Surely he could understand her hand in their father’s death and surely he wished to deal retribution accordingly. “Tell me, tell me.”

“Enough,” her brother rasped, fingers unclenching from around her shoulder. The release of the painful coil was unwelcomed.

Why did he not understand? “You thick-headed lout,” she spat at him unable to hold back any longer. “What will it take to make you act or are you as spineless as they say?”

Apparently her remark had hit a sore spot for before she could continue Eddard’s hand pressed against the lower half of her face, fingertips pressing painfully into her face. “You have practiced before with the wooden swords, I have seen you. Brandon had seen you. And Benjen was oft with you. Do you truly believe father knew nothing? Are you that daft?” She could reply nothing. He went on. “No matter what you would like to believe, there was nothing unknown to father.”

He let her go, pushing her frame away fro him. “He was displeased, I grant you, but ‘tis not you who caused his death.”

“’Tis not about the swords,” Lyanna cried. “I failed him, Ned. I failed him and it killed him.” She approached him lightly, wincing when he pulled away from her touch. “I failed our father. I was not the daughter he wanted, the daughter he needed.”

It made him sick. Her admission made his stomach roil. The fury was there again, just beneath the disbelief. Stupid girl, he thought, stupid, stupid child with wool in her ears and feathers for a brain. What sort of expectations had their father placed upon this willowy creature to break her so? Ned looked at her, he truly looked at her and stared dumbfounded, as if seeing her for the first time.

Lyanna was a pretty girl. She had always been a pretty girl. As a child she had had a strange little smile curving her mouth unequally, resulting in a nearly half-smile. It was the quirk that had attracted most attention. Her obstinacy had been a close second and her riding skills a mere third. Starks were expected to be excellent riders. Aye, she was pretty and dainty and despite her willingness to take up a hunting knife or a wooden sword and cut into the bark of the trees, she had never seemed anything less than a lady. Not to him, not to anyone he reckoned.

But before him stood not the pretty girl. Lyanna, his sister, sweet girl of his youth, a blue rose of winter, had grown thorns. And he, fool that he was, thought to puck such a flower with bare hands. Nay, he could not. Never again.

His sister was no longer just his sister; she was Lady Lyanna of Winterfell. He had not thought of that. He rarely had any need to. After all, there was the blistering, the wound souring and chafing, bleeding interminably like a wretched curse. But now he had to. He could no longer hide behind being a second son, he could not hide behind the distance between Winterfell and Lord Arryn’s keep, he could no longer hide behind Brandon or father.

He was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, keeper of the frail woman before him, her protector whether he wished it or not. And he had failed. He had failed her as much as she claimed to have failed father.

The woman looked at him through lowered lashes. “Do you understand now?” The question lingered between them, fouling his mood even further.

“I do not understand. I do not accept such a ludicrous fashion of thought.” Lord he might be, monster he was not. “The refusal came not because of you. You must know that.” He watched for her reaction, hoping against hope that she might see the light and that the gaping wound would pause its bleeding.

“Stop, I pray you.” It was no request despite her words. It was nothing less than an order. “There is something lacking within me, there must be, for how else would you explain what has happened?” Lyanna caught his hand this time, fingers squeezing his painfully. “I am lacking. Father came to see it and the bitterness of the realisation killed him.”

“His own desire for greatness killed him,” Ned replied harshly. “You have done naught wrong and you are certainly not lacking, sister mine.” If only there was a way to convince her. Damn those Southron wretches for ruining her. Damn the letters and a pox take the King. “Misfortune is to blame.”

The maiden shook her head but said nothing more. It was best that she did not. The gods knew he was tethering on the edge and a foul breeze could have serious repercussions. “I do not wish to discuss this any longer, Lyanna. Be on your way to your bedchamber. I shall send Nan to you.”

There were no protests to his edict. Lyanna dipped into a curtsy, as if to beat the last nail into his new position.

Eddard watch her go, his chest squeezing tightly, unpleasantly. 

The storm had just broken and it would likely continue for many more days before letting up. How were they to whether it, he wondered, feeling lost at sea, worse even, lost in the storm. Forever lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk, was in the mood for something dark and this is what I came up with. 
> 
> Feel free to share your thoughts.
> 
> P.S.: Mind the tags. This is not a happy read.


	2. The Hero Fallen

 

 

 

 

 

He had been dreaming again.

Ned woke with a start, sheets wound tightly around his body, a fine sheen of sweat coating his skin. With a muffled curse he threw the furs away from him and staggered to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. Sleep befuddled brain searched for an imprint upon the sheet, struggling to catch a ghost that constantly slipped between his fingers. There was nothing to be found but damp sheets and a faint sense of shame.

Who would have thought that he out of all would fall in such a way? Not he. One hand rested upon the narrow headboard, fingers curling around the stiff wood, blunt nails digging painfully into the surface. A shuddering breath rolled past his lips turning into mist before his eyes. It faded within moments.

Lightheaded, the young man continued to stare about the bedchamber, scrutinising every dark corner, every narrow gap he could find for the devils that plagued his sleep.

He was all alone.

The headboard was released, grudgingly, and the same hand brushed over a tired face as if to wipe away the last vestige of sleep. Ned sat back down upon the edge of the bed, all atremble with feverish want still coursing through his veins. When would it end?

There was nothing for it but to make haste and wed the Tully bride that had inherited along with the title of Lord of Winterfell. Brandon’s bride, that was. The sooner that matter was settled the sooner he could see to Lyanna and her own matrimonial plans.

There was a decision to be made there, of course. She would need a husband, not only to keep the realm from needlessly speculating, but for her own good; she needed something to distract her and keep her mind from dark haunts.

He pushed the thoughts away. There was little sense in contemplating the matter in such fashion, in the middle of the night. Ned stood to his feet and disrobed slowly. Sleep has left him and he was unlikely to catch it again were he to nail himself to the bed. The heavy damp sleepwear fell to the ground, leaving him exposed to the coolness.

Closing his eyes, the man allowed himself to be soothed, standing there near the end of the bed. At the Eyrie it was much colder in the middle of the night. Ned well remembered waking up with clattering teeth. He and Robert would oft make wagers of who could last the most without furs during the night and their lips would turns blue by the end of it. Jon Arryn had caught them at it once, both olf them nearly frozen. What a punishment that had earned them. A soft chuckle left Ned’s lips; he could still recall the painful blisters on his hands from all the manure shovelling he and Robert had been forced to do. Mucking out the stables was among the most hated tasks for both of them. Fond memories.

Within the span of a moment, however, he sobered. Fond memories they might well be, but that was all they were. He was no longer that boy.

Opening the lid of the nearest chest, he pulled out his garments and dressed himself with a languid, almost contemplative ease.

The position he had acceded to also involved a great deal of responsibility, which he wholeheartedly embraced, given the current situation. Ned left his bedchamber for the lord’s solar. Within darkness reigned, the candles having been blown out. Making quick work of lighting a few of them, the quiet wolf sat down behind his desk and looked upon the scrolls and parchments that had been left out.

The very first one detailed a transaction with and a few others were lists of tithes paid that had already entered the coffers. Another contained suggestions for alms. The Night’s Watch requested men. All words jumbled together before Ned’s eyes. The thick red ink the heading had been written in was smudged. By the low light the words could barely be made out.

Fie to him who ever trusted that writing was a task easily accomplished by anyone other than a maester. Good gods, it could not be that difficult to write down a few lines without smudging ink everywhere. Annoyed, Ned pushed the charter away and picked up another folded piece of paper. Just as he was about to unfold in, a thin shaft of moonlight climbed in through the lancet to land just underneath the desk.

Following the movement, Ned spied something hiding in the shadows. He bent down and reached out for the unknown object, fingers gripping what seemed to be paper. It was a thick, multilayered piece of parchment, slightly rough. Bringing it into the light, the quiet wolf raked tired eyes over small, neat lettering.

Half a heartbeat later he dropped it upon the table, realisation springing upon him like a wild beast.

It was the King’s letter.

Ned took it in his hand once more and a second perusal ensued. He’d known of the letter his father had received, but he’d not been shown it and could until now only guess at its content. The only certainty was that it had revealed the King’s refusal to betroth his son to Lyanna. And now he could finally see what had made his father so mad.

The reason became apparent after the first two lines. Eddard could not tell whether the intention had been merely to refuse or if Aerys had intended to shame one of his great lords, but the latter had been splendidly accomplished. Little wonder that father had been angered. He ought to feed the letter to the flames and be done with it. And yet his hand would not move.

There Eddard remained, eyes upon the cursed letter. Black words stood out to him, bloated and uneven, taunting. If ever he ought to hazard a guess, then Ned would presume it had not been solely the King behind this farcical message. Nay, indeed, it looked the hand of the High Septon reach out for the North, this accusation of unpardonable apostasy levelled at the whole kingdom of ice and snow and in particular at House Stark as promoters of this faith.

It could not be denied that even after Aegon’s conquest the Starks had retained much of their power, establishing their dominance not only through strength of arms, but through strength of faith. The North worshipped the old gods. Even with their conqueror bending knee to the faith of the Seven, Winterfell and the lords sworn to it had refused to embrace the new religion.

The religious conflict had been somewhat ameliorated by the wise decision of allowing both faiths to run alongside the other. It became apparent shortly after that one would dominate and the other would slowly burn out and dwindle into nothingness. The King’s letter had been nothing less than an attempt at delivering a finishing blow to the nameless gods.

In the end, for all his sister wept, the repudiation of a match between House Stark and House Targaryen was nothing more and nothing less than a punishment come from the High Septon. The King, might be guided by an old saying which named the enemy of one’s enemy friend, had chosen to sacrifice the prospective match between his eldest son and Ned’s sister.

The young lord of Winterfell crumpled the paper and threw it from him. It landed upon the ground and rolled beneath the desk, hiding away from sight. The quiet wolf sighed. From without a glimmer of light shyly tumbled in through the lancet. Were those the fingers of dawn, rising, bloody, over the horizon line, the ascent slow and dragging.

The ray pierced through one of his eyes, blinding him momentarily with its painful glare.

The night had come to pass and with it the demons flew away. It was such a strange, peculiar occurrence to have it so that his mind should be tormented only within the dark, confined environment of a lightless nightfall.

Ned had long outgrown the stories Nan used to tell. If only he could, in any way, do the same to the irrational, belligerent demand for satisfaction in regards to the injurious treatment of his house. Yet even as he thought it, his mind refused the comparison. A man might cast away beliefs that drag to one’s dignity, they might even have the temerity to laugh in the face of such tales, but no man, no matter how accepting, how lacking in the warrior spirit, at least to Ned’s mind, could bear to have the back of his head stepped upon and pressed to the ground for the enjoyment, the vanity and the sheer lunacy of an opponent. The gates never opened willingly to barbarians, to those corrupting the system of belief with platitudes and diluting and bending the truth.

Nay. It was the sole point of a warrior’s existence to refute any such attempts at forced entry, either by way of blade or by feather.

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

The young Prince stared at his lady mother, something akin to anger flourishing within his chest at the sheer idiocy of such an argument. House Targaryen had, it was true, formally bend to the demand of the many, taking on the mantle of the faith. But never had he heard it said, certainly not by his father, that they must be staunch supporters of the faith in their private life.

“Lady Betha Blackwood was queen of another belief,” he pointed out, entirely interested in the ground the argument could gain him. “And might I add that she was well loved despite this belief you call barbaric.”

It Lyanna Stark could be objected to, on any ground, then it was her age. Certainly not the sort of prayer she chose to administer in her hours of silence. “After all, lady mother, you give lip to the Seven, yet never have I seen you keep with them within these rooms.”

Practices, old ones that had been brought along by Gaemon and his sister-bride, though largely unacknowledged within the company of those sworn to the throne, were still in use within the family. “You would discredit my choice on the whims of a fat, greedy, uneducated man that does not even know his letters?” It was more than incredible and worrisome. “I vouch for the daughter of House Stark. Does that amount to nothing?”

The Queen brought the cup she’d been holding to her lips and took a sip of her drink, in no way affected by the markedly agitated behaviour of her son. “Queen Betha was bitterly opposed, you well know. Aegon’s coming to the throne brought along much strife within the political sphere.”

“Yet she persevered,” the Prince insisted, his countenance hardening. “We have tried everything but this. The Seven have not helped, our Valyrian gods do not hear us, and the maesters are unable to aid in any one way.”

Rhaella offered him a soft, placating smile. It might have worked had he been any less of a man. “Queen Betha bent knee to the faith of the Seven when she was crowned. The Blackwoods are an old house, truly. But the Starks are the principal house of the North. For a daughter of theirs to discredit her own faith before the eyes of the realm would be an insult.”

“I would not ask it of her.” Truly he would not. It mattered naught whether she found her comfort in the white bark of trees. Her value was in her blood, not in whatever faith she held to her heart. “And who would you have me wed then, lady mother? Shall I go a-begging after the Lannister maiden then? Or is it your Dornish Princess you would give to me?”

“You must wed someone,” Rhaella pointed out. “It is time you did your duty.”

“So I had been planning until I was stopped.” His mother had been the only one Rhaegar conceivably had any chance of convincing. “Does it not matter at all that the maiden has been made a promise? Am I to be regarded as an oathbreaker through what is arguably the greatest kingdom of all?

“A letter is not a promise,” the woman contradicted. Her eyes moved towards the high, narrow window. “The girl shan’t mind, Rhaegar. She will forget all about you in a matter of moon turns and hop in the arms of the next suitor who comes along.” The certainty in his voice construed a smack to his face.

It cast an unpleasant shadow not only upon his own worth in the eyes of Lyanna Stark, but on the very character of the maiden. He had not walked in blindly in approaching Hose Stark for a union. Seldom was Rhaegar tempted to choose a course of action he’d not thought through previously. It was the same with the she-wolf. He supposed his decision would be more palatable if coated in sweet words, certainly for some it would seem only natural that that be the reason of his insistence.

It was not at all the fact. Love was a sweet sentiment and in some measure the affection was necessary. But to suppose his wits addled, or to pretend to have them so, was not a price he was willing to pay. Not even for the support he needed. There were other ways.

“She shan’t,” he promised to the woman before him. It simply stood that her character pushed towards clinging to one’s beliefs rather than letting go. And her belief, if Rhaegar had the right of it, was that he wished to wed her. “Is that impossible to grasp?”

Rhaella laughed. “Grown you might be, my son. But there are still matters that are foreign to you. Maidens forget. I was one myself once, I should know.”

He refused to believe it either way. But what could he do given current circumstances? It was true that there had been no publicity of this courting process. But that had been more to protect the lady and her character, due to the fragile age. He could well see it had been a mistake on his part. Yet what to do?

He could risk going against the King’s wish. The worst the man could do was to take away his birthright. That would, in theory, not upset his plans. In practice, it might be difficult to convince House Stark of the viability of the match. Then again, he might need to convince only one person.

If only he could gain those letters back in some manner.

Might be for the moment it would be best to leave it. He would think of some way to escape the fetters.

“In any event,” the Queen went on, “Steffon Baratheon shall find an appropriate bride in Essos.” Aye, a foreigner who was more likely to be a liability than any help. Rhaegar blinked slowly, reining in his tongue. “No more nonsense about Lyanna Stark.”

The horse might be led to water, Rhaegar considered silently, but he could certainly not be made to drink.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Into The Mists

 

 

 

 

 

It was with no great joy that the wolf maiden mounted her horse for the last leg of the journey. She looked towards her brother every so oft, eyes begging him to leave her be, though her lips mad e no move to second the plea. Ned knew very well her disposition. He would not acquiesce, that much he’d made clear beforehand, but Lyanna had hoped that with enough determination, she might convince him. Alas, her brother was proving more of a challenge than she’d anticipated.

As such, the sole lady of Winterfell for the moment, sullenly pretended her acceptance. The very last desire she held close at heart was to come face to face with Brandon’s bride. A woman who not only had her prospects secured for her, but would be triumphant in lording her position over Lyanna. She would be Ned’s wife, thus the one true Lady of Winterfell. Which rather left the other with no purpose. Every last thing dear to her was being torn from her hold and she had little idea of how to respond.

Ever since the King’s letter had arrived, damned be the raven’s wings that carried it, she was desolate. Why would anyone hurt another person so cruelly? That the maiden could not explain. She momentarily closed her eyes against the sharp little stab of pain catching her off-guard. Her steed neighed softly, a reminder that they were still on the road and she could not afford the luxury of contemplating, lest she drove herself odd the road. If only Benjen were with them. But her poor brother had been left in Winterfell, the keep bound to hold at least one Stark at all times, according to legends. What a silly belief. But why risk more attack upon an already battered house. That had most likely been her brother’s way of thinking.

Despite not agreeing, Lyanna had accepted the separation. After all, they would not be long in Riverrun, Ned had promised. Just long enough to ensure the marriage contract between the two houses still stood. And might be, if at all possible, take Lady Catelyn back with them. Lyanna hoped it would not be the case. She, however, simply followed Ned’s path.

“We are almost arrived,” her brother assured, turning slightly towards her. He pointed out ahead of them. “Just over there. You can already make out the shape.”

That she could. With the sun shining its light fire above them all, the keep of Riverrun was rising slowly from the ground, its girth expanding with every approaching step. She had read that the keep bore a triangular shape, much like its valley. The maester’s books had spoken of stunning architecture, but Lyanna would be more inclined to call Winterfell that rather than Lord Tully’s keep. It was, however, surrounded by lush green fields and, no doubt, within there were magnificent gardens.

She was hoping she’d be allowed to retreat there. Company was not something she looked forward to at any rate.

In spite of her burning desire for solitude, as soon as the party reached the main gates and were admitted within, the courtyard filled with the inhabitants of the keep. Lord Tully was there to greet them, along with his two daughters. The first had to be Catelyn, Lyanna decided as the second flame haired maiden held onto the older one’s hand.

Having not concerned herself with Brandon’s tales of Catelyn, Lyanna could only vaguely recall that her brother had called her beautiful. It was the truth, as far as she could tell, for the oldest daughter could rival any painted Maiden in some sept.

There were two young men there as well. The first, she supposed to be Lord Tully’s son by his red hair and blue eyes. The second she did not know, though the dark hair, slight frame and pinched face did nothing to jolt her memory.

“Lord Stark, Lady Lyanna,” the jolly father called out to them as they dismounted. Hoster clapped a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Took you long enough, my lad,” he said in a manner that conveyed understanding. “I was sorry to hear the news about your brother. My children as well. We offer our condolences.”

“The sentiment is much appreciated,” Ned assured the man, his own stance rather awkward in the face of such unbridled emotion. Lyanna stopped herself from advancing and moving Lord Tully’s hand away. Her brother could take care of himself.

She herself was then treated to a bow and a warm hand-holding from the man. “Lady Lyanna, I welcome you to Riverrun. May your stay prove pleasant.”

She smiled thinly. “I am certain it shall.” Pulling her hand back, the maiden moved her gaze back to Caterlyn Tully. She observed the other analysing her brother. There was disappointment in that gaze. It did not bode well.

“Allow me to introduce my household,” Hoster Tully continued undeterred. Ned nodded his head. Lord Tully started with the oldest child. “This is my Catelyn, whom I am certain your brother spoke of.” The Lord of Winterfell nodded dutifully. “My younger daughter, Lysa.” This second child curtsied, her cheeks flushing. “And this here is my son, Edmure.” The young man bowed, his eyes resting upon Lyanna. “Last, but not least, my ward, Petyr Baelish of the Fingers.” This fourth one had a speculative slant to his eyes. If his bow was rather stiff and begrudging, she could not be certain.

The row swiftly broke as Ned was led away by Lord Tully, his eldest daughter on the heels. Lysa remained slightly behind, her gaze travelling to the ward as Edmure offered his arm to Lyanna. “My lady, it is an unexpected pleasure to have you with us.”

The harmless words produced in her an unexpected response. “Ser, surely you knew I would be arriving.” She took his arm nonetheless, her hand resting the in crook of his elbow.

The reply only momentarily stunned her partner. Quick as lightning, Edmure pasted a good-natured smile upon his face. Balance thrown off by such behaviour, Lyanna had little recourse but to follow the young man within the keep.

Taken to the great hall they were given wine and bread, cheese and salt. The peace offering was met with polite acceptance and they sat down at the wide table.

Seated between Catelyn and Lysa, the she-wolf found herself part of a conversation she’d wanted no part in. “Lord Whent promised it would be a grand tourney,” the younger Tully sister sighed dreamily. “Even the Silver Prince shall be there.”

“And by that time you shall undoubtedly be the sole Tully maiden,” Catelyn laughed. “Lady Lyanna, will you be going to the tourney? Oh, what am I saying, of course you shall. I will speak to Lord Stark myself.”

Was she already attempting to wrest Winterfell from herm Lyanna wondered, not without a hint of anger. “I am certain my brother shall make the best decision.” That was to say, Ned would allow her to remain in Winterfell. With that in mind the she-wolf offered a small smile to sweeten her previous words.

“Tell us about Winterfell,” Lysa asked, catching Lyanna by the shoulder with unwarranted enthusiasm. Her fingers clutched the other’s shoulder. Her forwardness stuns the Northerner.

“Did my brother never speak of it when he visited?” she found herself compelled to ask.

“Lysa never sat with Brandon for his visits were always much too short,” Catelyn offered by way of explanation. “I should enjoy it too, my lady, if you spoke to us of the keep.

So Lyanna found herself answering questions about Winterfell throughout the meal, despite her best attempts relaxing in the presence of the Tully siblings and Lord Tully’s ward. Her won troubles fled to the back of her mind the more she was absorbed with the group of youths. As if to taunt her, fate dealt her the full attention of Lord Tully’s son. Edmure seemed to take a shine to her with alarming alacrity.

Her ego might well take pleasure in the knowledge, but the maiden could not help her own insecurities. Familiar fear whispered softly in her ear of disaster. The she-wolf continued her conversation nonetheless, for all worry gnawed at her. Ned would be displeased otherwise.

“I can barely wait,” Lysa gushed, her bright smile nearly infectious. More than anyone, she exuded joy at the prospect of marriage. How very easy it was for her, Lyanna considered. Her lord father was apparently in negotiations with Lord Lannister. “After Cat, I shall be the one to wed.”

From the corner of her eye, Lyanna caught the soft movement of the ward. The sullen looking young man curled his lip inward, a strange little tremor shaking one of his arms. Blinking, the she-wolf gifted her attention back to Lysa, wondering just what it was that she had witnessed.

“I am certain we shall all be very happy when that day comes,” Edmure quipped mercilessly. “Lady Lyanna, I am sure my sister’s blabbering has bored you long enough. Mayhap there is something you wish to know about Riverrun.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Robert shook his head in silent concern, not quite understanding the question. “Your Grace, my lord father has already been tasked with finding an appropriate bride.” Besides that, the heir of Storm’s End had to wonder at this insistence of the Prince’s. What did it matter whom his father found? “The King trusts him.”

Rhaegar Targaryen sighed. “I have no intention of accepting an Essosi bride,” he argued softly. “It is partly why I am insisting you write the man. He should return empty handed.”It was one of those tasks Rhaegar would have avoided if he could, but he knew all too well that entrusting such information to anyone else could cost him. So it was that he’d ridden all the way to the home of Lord Arryn. His Baratheon cousin was proving to me more work than he’d anticipated.

If Gods forbid Steffon returned with an Essosi noblewoman, the entanglement would be a bit too much. Whatever his plans, the Prince was ever aware of the need to move with stealth. His own father would not hesitate to lop his head off if he sensed a plot afoot.

“The King won’t be able to dole out any punishment. Your lord father was tasked with attempting to find a bride, after all. If he fails, he fails.” There was little punishment besides a fine that Rhaegar could see as being the outcome. “And if there is, I shall take it upon myself.”

“Why are you so adamant about this matter, Your Grace?” Robert Baratheon had never much cared for the Prince. The age difference along with a general gap of understanding between them had forever stopped communications. Yet he could not help but be intrigued. It was not everyday that the son of the King came especially looking for him. The young heir waited for a response.

“I already have someone in mind.” The unexpected response momentarily rendered Robert speechless. How peculiar. He’d not heard it said that the Prince was courting any maiden. “In fact, I do believe you know the lady. Lyanna Stark.”

Little Lya. Robert burst out into booming laughter. The last he’d seen her, she had tried to run him through with a wooden sword. “Lyanna Stark,” he repeated, the fond memory dissipating slowly. His own father had contemplated a match between himself and Ned’s sister, but it came to nothing, not even an exchange of letters. “I very much doubt Ned would allow her out of his sigh so soon after the losses he’s suffered,” the younger man found it in himself to answer. “And I very much doubt Lady Lyanna would prove amenable.”

“That is my concern,” the Prince offered. It occurred to Robert that there was something her did not know about the matter. Instead of questioning it, however, the heir was more than pleased to lean back in his seat and shake his head in sympathy.

“Very well, I shall write to my father, but it shan’t be on any use.” If mayhap he could speak to Ned, then that was an entirely different matter. He believed he could persuade his dear friend.

Satisfied with what he had gained, Rhaegar stood to his feet. “I won’t forget your aid.” If it worked out, when the King was no longer a blight on the face of Westseros, he would reward House Baratheon, the Prince swore to himself. The more important matter in the meantime was to succeed. And he had just the plan for it.

Taking leave of his cousin and the smug look upon his face, Rhaegar made his way to Lord Arryn’s solar. The gruff man awaited him seated in a chair, a glass of wine in his hand. “Was your interview with young Robert fruitful, Your Grace?”

If there was one thing lords desired, than that was power. From Lannisters to Arryns to Tullys and even Starks, each and every last one of them had a taste for power. If he could supply that, or at least an illusion of it, then he should be safe. Rhaegar sat down unconcerned, his eyes on the other’s face.

“Enough to satisfy,” he responded, picking up the cup of wine prepared for him. “Tell me then about this pact between your houses.” Jon Arryn did not need much urging to launch into a discourse about the matter. From what Rhaegar gathered, the man was close enough to the newly minted Lord of Winterfell to be of use. Thus the Prince waited patiently for the man to end his discourse before he spoke once more. “Then is there a possibility of convincing Lord Stark to join us at the tourney?” If he could work matters out with Eddard Stark he would, if not he would seek out the lady herself.

“Ned Stark has always been mindful of his responsibilities. He shall be there, Your Grace. However, I cannot vouch for Lady Lyanna. Their custom demands that a Stark always remain in Winterfell at all times. Since their number has dwindled, it could well be that the boy shall choose to leave his sister to tend to the keep.”

“We shall worry of it at the proper time,” Rhaegar said. In fact, it was all the better if Eddard Stark did leave his sister in Winterfell. “For now, it is enough to have Lord Stark at the tourney.” Gods be willing, he would rid the realm of his father and have the appropriate bride all in one strike. “It was good of you, my lord, to lend me your ear. My gratitude.”

“Your Grace,” Lord Arryn returned, his very face a mask carved in stone. “If there is anything else I may be of aid with.”

“I would not hesitate to let you know.” He had best see to it that Arryn remained on his side. The Prince stood from his seat with accustomed grace. Victory was close, so very close. He only had to reach out and it would be his for the taking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I know what I saw,” his sister insisted, hands crossed over her chest. “To her your not being Brandon is enough to have formed an opinion.” The stubborn set of her chin, the curling lips and flowing hair, by all means he should be wondering at his own sanity in the face of it. But Ned could merely place a calming hand upon Lyanna’s shoulder.

“It does not matter what she thinks of this. There is a marriage contract. It does not matter what either of us believe about the other.” It did not even matter that his heart was torn. “She is to be my lady wife, and you, Lyanna, will get along with her.”

Scowling, the she-wolf rolled her shoulder, pushing his hand away. “I did not mean it thus. What do you believe of me, I wonder.” The harsh manner of her speech gave him pause. She could be incredibly frustrating when she put her mind to it. “It was merely a warning.”

His fingers curled inward. “This is my duty. And I do this for you as well. The sooner I wed Catelyn Tully, the sooner I may turn my attention to finding you a spouse.”His sister flushed at that. “Do not look at me so. You cannot expect that I shall forever be your keeper.” Although the gods knew, the thought of it did not rankle as much as it should. Was it not the duty of a brother to care for his sister? “Now more than ever, we need to ally ourselves with strong houses.”

Her guard dropped then. Ned watched the tension flee her frame. “I know. I pray you will excuse the outburst. It is merely that I did not like the manner of it. Brandon, may the gods rest him, is gone. And you are here. She should know that, Ned.”

Did it truly matter? He got the sense that the Tully maiden had been infatuated with his brother. That he could well understand, for Brandon had ever been able to charm a pretty lass. It did not sting his pride or make his heart ache. “I am sure she knows it.” Holding one hand out, he waited for Lyanna to reluctantly offer him her own. Pulling her into a loose half-embrace, Ned continued, “Have some patience, sister mine, and there will come a day when all is well. Even for us.”

Especially for them, come to think of it. Ned decided in that moment that he would do his very best to improve the situation. “Trust in me.”

He let her go and his sister nodded her head. “Of course. There will never come a day when I do not.”

And yet, he could still catch a glimpse of that crushing sadness in her eyes. There was nothing for it. Ned allowed her to be off to her own bedchamber, for fear of discovery. What should it be thought of them if they were caught together in the middle of the night? The thought did not bear any prolonged contemplation.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tough crowd, I s'pose. Lol.


	4. A Will Of Steel

 

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Lonmouth sighed softly. There were few task so arduous as being the Prince’s squire. And even less of those who borne more prestige. And yet, despite having a fairly good knowledge on the knight he served, Richard could safely say he did not understood the insistence. It had to be said that His Grace had not explained either, other than to say his task was of great import and it was to be carried out with utmost skill.

But did it have to be in the freezing North?

The squire could feel the cold creeping beneath his cloak, harsh fingers dragging painfully against the thin layer of warmth he’d managed to gather. And all of it for a woman. That was not to say he had anything against woman. Nay indeed, women were very much appreciated.

It was the particular woman the Prince had in mind that baffled him. Out of all the maidens throughout the land, did he have to choose the one who was kept in the frosty realm, leagues away from anything resembling civilisation? The young man scowled at nothing in particular. Even her name seemed strange upon the tongue. Lyanna. Who named their daughter Lyanna? Was she some species of plant might be, a root that one chewed upon? Surely the Prince was bound to choke upon it and spit it out. The lady besides.

Far be it from him to criticise his betters. But even the King had put his foot down and told his son in no uncertain terms that there would be no wedding. Why couldn’t his knight accept the defeat with grace? There were plenty of fish in the sea and more than enough time to have one’s pick. A Northerner girl was nothing to be fussed over.

In fact, when one could persuade the King to offer for Cersei Lannister, it stood to reason that one should grab the chance with both hands. The Prince had done exactly the opposite. And the gods knew she was no longer the child’s she’d been upon Prince Viserys’ tourney. She was a woman grown, fairer than the sun.

Myles had joked that the Prince had been struck blind by her beauty. Richard had to wonder if there was some truth to it.

At any rate, the Prince had ordered him to Winterfell, to wait upon the lady he wished for and have words with her. Richard shuddered to think that he might have gone himself had it not been for a timely raven come from the Red Keep in the neat script of Maester Pycelle, ordering the Prince’s return by demand of his kingly father.

Another gust of wind blew over him, raising the hairs on his neck with its chill. His horse nickered in protest and shook it head. “No more of that,” Richard ground out, “or I shall be having salted horse for supper.” And damn the consequences or the aching feet he’d be sporting after such a choice.

The beast shook and reared, nearly throwing him off, but for his strong grip. “Beast,” the young man muttered. It would pay.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar gazed upon the delicate visage of Princess Elia. Her wasp-like figure greatly emphasised by her bright kirtle contrasted with the wide dark frame of the mahogany chair she’d been seated upon. Rhaegar knew a trap when he saw one.

“And Your Grace plays the high harp, I am told,” she said softly, lips curling into a pleasant smile. There was nothing to suggest that she’d not practiced the conversation a thousand times over in her mind. Not a word out of place, nor a stutter, nor any indication of spontaneity. She’d come before him to impress.

“I have been known to do so from time to time,” he replied in the same polite manner. A Dornish Princess for the Iron Throne was nothing new. Nor was it something his own father was considering with any seriousness. Rhaegar hoped so, at any rate.

His lady mother was behind it. “Mayhap Your Grace would play for me sometime. I should like very much to hear so skilled a musician.” Her eyes moved minutely to the blood oranges on the table. She’d been doing it every now and again. Looking at the fruit. Yet she’d not dared to reach out for one.

Taking pity, he took one of the larger oranges in his hand and with the knife he wore on his belt, a short Valyrian hunting knife no more suited for the task than he for her company, peeled back the thick skin to reveal the juicy interior. “I am certain your shall have the chance, Your Grace,: he said, even as his fingers worked to part the pieces one from the other.

What a sight it was, the way they clung together, like desperate lovers, loathe to part and yet unable to remain locked together. He nearly grimaced at the road his own thought had taken. Lover in a passionate embrace. The very notion of love itself. He would have smiled if for the fact that he’d be put in quite the spot if he did not explain to his companion as well. Rhaegar maintained a straight face while placing the offering upon the table, though the Princess had made a gesture to receive it from him.

A flash of disappointment travelled her features. “I am hoping to,” she answered his earlier statement, eyes falling to the peeled blood orange. She took out of the bunch one piece and bit into it. The wound bled a few droplets upon her lips as she pulled the severed piece away. She pressed her lips together, the moisture fading. “My brother tells me you played at Prince Viserys’ tourney. I wish I had been there.”

He’d played only because it had been a request. Rhaegar did not enjoy entertaining crowds. The best music was the one shared in anonymity. The one able to touch the soul and not the vanity. He stared silently upon the older woman’s face. Such a brittle creature, he thought, watching her flounder, searching for her words. He was well aware he was being rather rude. But then, so had she, forcing his hand into this meeting. Rhaegar found he did not much care it had been the edict of their mother that they keep company. She had accepted and for him that was enough to merit his coolness.

The red from her cheeks faded slightly as she ate the remainder of her orange piece, seeming to think deeply upon some matter. He looked away, but not before he caught sight of her wrist, bared by some manner from behind a wide sleeve. So frail, so breakable, the thought taunted him. She was the sort to refuse a fine ride, not because she did not wish to, but because she could not.

Too frail. She would break. And he would have to pick the pieces and put them back together, or brush them off, if ever he accepted the burden of her.

Elia Martell was, in truth, eminently suitable. She came from a long line of fine Dornish nobility, her age placed her within childbearing years and her faith matched his own. Were he any other way minded, he would have wedded her without blinking.

But there still remained the matter of her blood. Targaryen and Martell had mixed before, coming together generations past. They were fire, the lot of them, indistinguishable one from the other. She would not aid him in his plan; once more not because she did not wish it necessarily, but because she could not.

And thus he did not want her. With the clinical touch a maester applied to the wounded soldier, Rhaegar decided to put an end to her meandering. “Pray tell me, Your Grace,” he began, fingers drumming softly against the arm of his chair, “have you the heart to break mine own?” He was not above lying his way out of this.

His gaze upon her once more, Rhaegar studied her reaction; the way in which she jolted, frown deepening. “What manner of speech is that, Your Grace? How could I break your heart?” The fear in her eyes nearly brought a smile upon his lips.

“It should break my heart to do as my great-uncle Duncan has and break the good relationship between our houses.” He reached out and pulled a piece of fruit of his own. He ate it whole, chewing into the soft flesh.

“I do not understand,” Elia whispered. “There was never mention of another.”

“Then you have been fed Essosi coin, Your Grace.” Her face crumbled. Rhaegar leaned back in his seat, admiring the fruit of his labour. “Any man should be in great luck to possess your heart. Any other man but I,” he added.

“You are cruel.” The Princess sat up. “I have been led on.” The protest left her miserable.

“Not by myself,” Rhaegar pointed out. “I’ve not made your promises, nor you to me. Let those who have bear them forth.” An impossibility. “I hope you shall one day see it is for the best.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why would you shame me so?” his mother asked, her disappointment washing over him. “I have promised she would be made to feel welcome within the walls of this keep and you have done your utmost to put her off. Why are you such a difficult boy?”

Rhaegar stood from his seat to tower over her. His mother was not a small woman by any means. Yet she was dwarfed in the shadow of his own height. “I have stopped being a boy, lady mother, a long time past.” His calm manner only seemed to bring out her ire even further. “As for the promise you have made, it is your own to keep.”

“Rhaegar!” she protested, one hand coming to cover her breast, upon her heart. “How can you speak to me so?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “Princess Elia Martell is a good, sweet girl. Whatever could you find that would make you protest the match?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “There is only one flaw, lady mother, that I have found with the Princess. One flaw that try as I might, I cannot forget about. Save for that, I would gladly make her my bride.”

The Queen gaped at him. “You wretched child. So you have not given up that barbarian on the other side of the realm. Is this house only worthy of a savage in your eyes?”

“A savage? Hardly. The Summer Isles are not so easily reached, lady mother.” The conversation was growing repetitive. “I have told you. I am a man of my word, and my word has been given to Lyanna Stark for many moon turn now. I would not have its value lowered.”

“Value? Word?” his mother repeated, lips curling in distaste. “Does she value her word half as much as you do yours? I keep trying to tell you. Why won’t you listen?”

“Why should I listen? Have you any proof?” His question caused a moment of uncertainty, he perceived, by the way his mother’s face twisted. There; he had her. “You assume her guilt and yet you offer me no proof. I have placed my trust in Lyanna Stark. Wrench it away if you can.”

“I can well do that,” the woman hurried to answer. “I shall prove it to you. The first man I send to win her favour shall do so with ease.”

“Do you have anyone in mind? Or shall I pick?” There were a few choices. It should not be too difficult.

His lady mother shook her head. “Nay. I can see what you are on about. The choice is mine and shall be revealed to you only after arrangements have been made.” Very well, he still had Myles to sent off if need be. Rhaegar nodded his head. “I shall see the raven sent myself and by this time on the morrow you shall have your answer.”

“My gratitude,” he offered mockingly, bowing to the woman before him. “You are ever so kind.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna graced him with a bright smile, her skirts resting neatly about her crossed legs. They had come upon a patch of wild flowers and she had, as she was wont to do with the sigh of anything remotely attractive bearing petals, requested that they stop awhile. Her fingers worked busily on plaiting even as he looked at her, ready to shake his head at the undignified position, yet equally entranced by the way she gazed at him.

“Aren’t they pretty?” she questioned, holding up the pale yellow flowers. Soft petals brushed her fingers. Ned imagined the sweet fragrance lingered as well. “’Tis a bit early for them to be out.” She continued with her work nonetheless. “But I am glad for it.”

He dared not voice why he thought she was glad. His sister had been somewhat reluctant to accept Catelyn Tully for a friend even when they’d spent quite some time at Riverrun. Instead, whatever gulf lied between them seemed to have deepened. He was much surprised to have not heard even a work about the fact Lord Tully had requested that the wedding wait a few more moon turns and that Catelyn yet remain within her home.

Lyanna stood to her feet and held out her creation. “What do you think?” she requested of him, smile not faltering a bit. He’d not seen her this pleased for some time yet. Something swelled within him. Ned gazed from her to the crown of flowers.

“It is missing something.” His sister blinked. He could not help but give a small smile of his own at her reaction. Stepping towards the she-wolf, he lifted the burden from her hands and placed the crown upon her head. The flowers of honey-gold rested against the darkness of her tresses, the Lysene curls she’d been forced to endure at the hands of the Riverrun septa still winding into soft round locks. “There; now it is perfect.”

Even as he said the words, his fingers yet lingered upon the cluster of flowers. He swore he could feel the heat of her on his fingertips. Ned looked down into her upturned face. “Beyond perfect,” he amended his earlier statement, falling prey to that peculiar feeling which would not leave him be.

“Why, ser knight, I am deeply grateful.” She bobbed him a curtsy, hand shooting up to keep her crown in place as they both dissolved into peals of laughter. “How can I ever repay you?” She’d said it in jest. He well knew it to be true. But Ned’s heart squeezed, his stomach turning painfully.

“Smile for me like you do now for the rest of our days.” He had not realised the words had left his lips until his sister straightened herself to look into his face, her own mien serious. His lips parted, to somehow rectify the blunder. “What I mean–“

“Why are you so serious?” the she-wolf interrupted. “If I smile, then you must as well. Else I shall be very cross. Surely you do not wish it.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winterfell opened its gates and embraced the two wolves returned. Lyanna sighed pleasantly, fingertips playing upon one edge of her crown. She feared that after so many days of travel, the flowers were nowhere near as fresh as when she’d picked them. Yet she did not have the heart to throw it away. Ned had placed it upon her head. And his gesture had made her heart swell with joy.

Helped down from her horse, Lyanna was swiftly borne into the embrace of her younger brother, Benjen burying his head into her shoulder. “I have missed you, sister,” the child said, arms squeezing her tightly. She only managed a choked laughter in reply for he drew the breath from her.

“Benjen mind that you don’t do her harm,” Ned’s voice came from ahead, prompting the youngest wolfling to let her go. Lyanna promptly returned his embrace to show she’d not minded. Not his embrace.

“I have missed you as well,” she answered, pressing her lips to his forehead, something almost maternal playing in her eyes. “Let us see how well you have done in our absence.” Pride shone in her brother’s face as he started rattling off his adventures.

And many they were. She and Ned had not been gone long enough for so many things to have happened. Yet she listened with amusement and indulgence at Benjen, one hand draped across his shoulders, pulling him into her side. “Aye, do go on. What did the merchant say?” Hadn’t it been a story Nan used to tell them, of a merchant lost in the North?

“Don’t encourage him,” Ned managed to whisper.

“He is but a child, Ned,” Lyanna answered, momentarily looking away from the boy. “He is grieving. Allow him to do so.” In truth, she knew not if her brother was grieving. He must have been, she decoded, but only because she suffered herself.

Unlike her and Ned, Benjen seemed to have found another coping mechanism. And if it aided him in his pursuit, Lyanna was only too glad to encourage its usage.

“And then,” Benjen continued, “ he grabbed my sleeve. Do you know what I told him, sister, do you?”

“Nay, pray enlighten me,” Lyanna replied patiently, fingers drawing small circles into his shoulder. What harm could a few stories cause, after all. She would speak with the maester and see to the needs of the keep, although she was fairly certain naught was amiss. It did not look it.

Benjen continued with his tale as they entered the great hall. Lyanna passed the long table, guiding her brother towards the stairs. “I say that I would aid, but only if he made me a promise to do the same when I would be in need.”

“What a clever thing to do,” she complimented, eyes crinkling with her smile. “What a fine heir Ned has. I shall let him know.”

“You shall?” Benjen looked at her in wonder.

“Of course, you deserve his praise as well.” She placed another kiss upon his brow. “My clever brother.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her mare snorted softly, tossing her mane to the side. Lyanna patted her neck, drawing soothing circles into the russet coat. “There now, there is naught to fear.” She was uneasy as well. As if she were being watched. It was a disconcerting feeling. “It is but some squirrel in search of food.”

A branch cracked under some unexpected weight, the symphony of its breaking reverberating through the clearing. Nay, ‘twas no squirrel. Lyanna tensed, grabbing the reigns of her horse. She looked about, but saw no one. “Who goes there?” she called out, in hoped of drawing her follower into sight. “Come out now, or I shall return with soldiers to search.”

From behind a line of trees a young man rode into the clearing. “Pray do not do that, my lady. I mean no harm.” He held his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Why should you make it your business to follow me then?” she demanded, distrustfully taking a step backwards. He could be a thief, though his clothes looked too good to belong to a robber. She would not reach her dagger in time.

“I was ordered to.” She saw him wince. “By His Grace, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. I’ve a message to deliver.”

At the mention of the Prince, her knees went weak. Nay. Nay, why was it that when she managed to regain some portion of herself he stole it back. Jaw clenching, Lyanna fought for words. “Keep your message. I do know wish to know.”

But he would not take nay for his answer. The young man jumped down from upon his beast’s back. “His Grace was most insistent.” And he placed within her trembling hand a neatly folded scroll. “If you would answer, meet me here on the morrow before the crow of the rooster.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Stare Into The Abyss

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was not herself. Ned looked at his sister, playing with the food on her plate as she was wont to do when deep in thought, and contemplated the strangeness of her behaviour. Lyanna was becoming more and more of a mystery to him. The more he discovered, the less he felt he knew and that only aggravated his temper further. Yet she would not come to him with her troubles and if he questioned, she’d simply smile and assure him that all was well and he mustn’t worry over her. In other words, she lied as easy as she breathed.

With that in mind, he decided that she would have of him a few more days to think through her actions and then he would demand of her to know exactly what it was that she hid from him. In a sense she reminded him of mother, or rather whatever meagre memories he still kept of the woman, for in the intervening years since her death, Ned found that much of what he once held as knowledge had faded, slowly chipped away, leaving only diffuse lines as guidance. But the impression of a wan smile and a kindly voice promising that she was fine, that all was well, had stayed with him regardless of the cruel effects of time.

In much the same manner, every last protest leaving his sister’s lips had his suspicions increase. Every downward curve of the lips, every nostalgic blink, every time a sigh passed pasted her lips, his attention was invariably drawn to her, because what brother could turn a blind eye to the suffering of his sister and pretend ignorance? Well, he supposed there were some, and to be perfectly honest, he had taken quite a bit of time to give her his attention. The reality of the matter stayed with him for a few long moments as he stood to his feet, the entirety of his hall doing the same.

“A word with you, sister,” he whispered to Lyanna as she placed her hand on his arm. Turning his head towards the younger brother, he invited Benjen to be off to his play. “I expect there shall be no trouble.” The boy nodded, happy to scamper along for the moment.

“You grow more and more like father by the day,” his sister noted, fingers curling around his forearm in a tight band. “That is not entirely upsetting.” The offhanded comment threw his off kilter enough for her to notice. “It is a compliment, Ned. You are supposed to thank me for it.”

“What if I do not wish to be like father?” That would be a lie. Father had been a man who had had everything he wanted. Not everything he desired, to be sure, but what he wanted was his for the taking. He wanted to be like his father, content with his lot, whatever it might be. But the issue was, it was increasingly harder for him to be so.

Lyanna shrugged, the benign smile she offered failing to reveal aught new to him. They walked together into one of the smaller halls, still holding close to one another. “I wish you would t rust me,” he told her with a suddenness that astonished even him. At the question he saw in her gaze, Ned’s lips twisted in a brittle grin. “Let us not jest upon this occasion, sister mine. You trust me as the mouse does a lion. And yet I’ve no intention to harm you.”

“If I were to tell you what I am thinking of you would not be pleased. But I do trust you.” A lie, once more. “Ned, I think it is you who does not trust me. I know I have been somewhat odd in my behaviour and I can only say I regret some of my earlier words. Yet trust me when I say that I would keep naught from you.”

He was looking in her eyes as he opened a random door and hustled her into the chamber, vision sliding lower. Worryingly, his eyes lingered upon her lips. She spoke. “And whatever you would ask of me I would do. Surely, you are aware of it.”

The only matter he was aware of, increasingly, was that Lyanna and he must be somehow separated. For the benefit of all involved. “That is good to hear. I shall soon begin searching for a husband for you.” Colour fled her features. He went on. “The sooner you have a family of your own, the sooner you will be able to dull the pain of our recent losses. You got on very well with Lord Tully’s heir.”   

He saw the nearly imperceptible twitch of her jaw, the line jumping ever so slightly. “He is just a boy, Ned. Is he even as old as I? If I must wed, and you say I must, then find for me someone I can respect.” But who would a strong headed girl like her respect? “There must be someone.” A someone that was remote enough to not cause her pain by reminding her of past failures, yet vigorous enough to hold the reins safely.

“The wedding shan’t take place on this day. I simply wished to let you know.” He hardly had any names prepared. The announcement had been impulsive. Ned had considered wedding her off before, and he would, but first he had to carefully consider any options he came upon.

“Now I know,” she answered, brushing past him towards the door. “Did you believe I was going to fight you over the matter?” He would not put it past her. Lyanna had her moments when caught by surprise she would cooperate, but otherwise one could be assured of her contrary nature. The early demises plaguing their family had reduced her to silence for a time, but he was very much certain she would spring back to her feet and do as she always had. Bitter laughter spilled past her lips. “I can see you did. Never worry, Ned, I shan’t disappoint you as well.” She took her leave of him in a flurry of skirts and sullenness.

And as her footsteps faded along the corridor, sounds melting into anonymity, he realised that he was indeed disappointed. With Lyanna. For not fighting him on the decision. He had come to expect it of her to froth at the mouth at being told what to do. He knew there had been more than enough arguments with father upon the matter. Or to have her comply so readily was to him the strangest of things. But mostly he was hurt that she hadn’t wished to stay here, with him. For whatever incomprehensible reason, his mind and heart were at war, with the latter summoning a cloud of wrath and the former pointing towards the fact that his sister’s reaction had been quite natural. That it failed to appease him could only be frightening and strengthen his resolve further. Lyanna had to be wedded, and the sooner the better, for him and for her alike. Nonetheless, he refused to inspect the reasoning behind the decision too closely, lest he discover aught he did not wish to see.

Ned would do as he had always done and House Stark would survive as it always had. That was just the way of the world and all who wished to survive had to adapt. Guilt abated for the moment, hiding somewhere out of sight until he next had his sister before his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The neat stroke of her quill has left crisp lines on the crumpled paper. But he recognised her hand. It held the same familiarity if not the same warmth and he thumbed his way across the thin lettering as the flakes fell from the skies. Myles was still muttering to himself about the cold, huddled in his cloak as he was. Rhaegar ignored his complaints and guided his own steed at a faster pace.

He did not need Myles’ tart tongue to remind him that ice had crept into his very veins, creating a cast so thick around his body that he was nearly afraid to leap of his horse lest he should never be able to mount again. The North was damnably cold and by her response Lady Lyanna was cut out of the same cloth as her homeland. He could expect to be pelted with icicles from her lips when he finally saw her, but if he managed to convince her then all should be well.

“Your Grace, I say we turn back,” Myles cut into his line of thought at long last as a light flared to life somewhere ahead.

With a thin smile on his lips, Rhaegar turned to look at his squire, “Did it take you long to formulate the plan, Mooton?” The other man scowled. The beauty of their close friendship was that the man never bothered to hide what he felt. Which was just as well since Rhaegar had had quite enough of the other kind in King’s Landing. Even Lady Lyanna’s scathing reply was welcome.

What her response had revealed, however, beyond the pleasure of some genuine emotion, was that she was still as affected by him as she had been before. It gave him hope that in her icy anger she had shared more than just a few words. It gave him hope that he could engage her attention back to him somehow. Before his lady mother sent anyone after her that was. Although his disappearance was bound to have given her just the idea; doubtless she knew exactly where he had taken himself off to. With any luck, he had enough of an advantage to press forward unbothered.

The small path they’d made through the snow narrowed behind them as he looked over his shoulder. The small flicker of light ahead beamed stronger than before when his attention was back upon it and Myles let out a low whistle. “Richard sure outdid himself this time.”

Richard, mounting his own horse stood before them on the path a few feet ahead, his cowl drawn down. A grin played on his face, at their expense, Rhaegar figured, for he himself looked warm enough, wearing clothes that were not his own.

“Your Grace, Mooton,” he greeted once they were close enough. “A fair trip, wasn’t it?” His deep voice was tinged with a hint of gruffness, as if he’d not quite forgiven Rhaegar for sending his off alone. “Well?”

“Fair enough,” he answered. “But not near enough for me to make it a second time. I shall take care of all my business this once.”

“Your business,” Richard pointed out, “is hardly amenable. She looked like she might murder me in cold blood. And she said her brother shall find her a suitable betrothed.” He had begun leading them on the path. “There is a village ahead. They have an inn, if you can call it that. I’ve taken the liberty of paying for the rooms. I bet it’s more business than they’ve seen in years.” He prattled on about deplorable conditions mostly to Myles who seemed to be showing interest.

The village they were brought to was apparently known as the Winter Town. Rhaegar had seen enough towns to know that this one hardly qualified for the dubious honour. Likely it had been dubbed a town for the nearness it bore to Winterfell. The inn, however, was pleasant enough despite Rickard’s complaints. The barmaids, two of them, were pleasant to the few patrons gathered in the main chamber, bustling left and right, smiles on their faces.

“Found your friends, have‘ya?” one of then asked Richard, her smile widening slightly. Light blue eyes landed on him. She was good looking enough, Rhaegar supposed, with her thick, wavy hair and wide eyes. Thin lips parted in question. “What can I bring you all?”

“Ale,” he replied shortly, taking out a few copper coins and sliding them into her lax hand. “Be quick about it.” She tucked the coins away and lingered long enough to offer a suggestive look before she was off to bring the ale.

“I knew this would happen,” Richard said. “Not even a minute and already a first conquest. Better take her up on the offer if you truly mean to renounce all such pleasures soon.”

“The man who searches for quantity will often miss quality,” he offered after a short pause. “You can have her Richard. I came here for only one woman.” It was not that he detested the thought of lying with the wench. She was comely enough. But it seemed a waste of his time to do so.

The barmaid returned with the drink and moved her attention to Richard when Rhaegar did not encourage her in any way. He noted that she had not seemed insulted. All the better for her. She knew how to conduct herself. She left shortly.

Myles made a disapproving noise. “She is not here, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar merely smiled absently at that. She would be soon enough. He took a sip of the ale, the drink flowing smoothly down his throat, warming him up. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Mooton.” Seeming to understand he would say no more on the matter, the other two returned to their talk while he looked about the place. Soon enough, he promised himself, she would be sitting at his side. He took another sip of the drink. Should he ask Lonmouth for details of the girl or wait patiently for the morrow to settle upon them?

Nay, better not to know. As long as she had all her limbs and the majority of her teeth, he had naught to complain of. He would hold onto his curiosity and slake it come morning. Best not to give his squires ideas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Benjen yawned, hiding the lingering sleepiness behind the palm of his hand. “Why do you wish to go riding so early?” he complained. “There is hardly a difference if you ride after we break out fast.” And she would, on any other day. But Lyanna found her appetite waned and thought that a ride might do her good.

“If you do not wish to be here, then you had beast head back.” The rest of the keep was hardly going to be awake, but dawn was fast approaching. If he cantered back slowly, he would be in time for the kitchens to have set about preparing food for them. It was the bets she could do for him certainly. “Go on then,” she invited. Might be the solace would do her good as well. With Ned more close on her heels than not, she had hardly had time to contemplate her actions. Or their impact.

She regretted sending the reply she had to the Prince. In her anger, however, she could not hold back. Why did the man think that her heart would remain constant to someone who had rejected her so thoroughly? Gods, she could hardly find reason for it.

“But you will be alone,” Benjen said after a few odd moments of silence. “I cannot leave you here on your own. Ned would not be pleased.”

“Benjen Stark, I have known you far longer than you have me. Trust me when I tell you that I shall be fine on my own. As for our brother, let me handle him. You just be along if you so wish.” He hesitated, but only for a few moments. Then he was on his way.

At long last, it was only she and her docile mare on the grey ribbon of a road.

She did not dismount, nor did she move to another path least ambled upon. If she had used her head, like she so rarely did, the result might have been another. The prince had professed that he still wanted her for his wife and she, with all the wisdom of a fool, had spurned him out of a sense of wounded pride. To be sure, her pride had been in tatters and more so her heart, but she had failed to recognise one important aspect; she was no princess of the kingdoms. Her words had repercussions. And she had walked straight into the trap her treacherous heart and indomitable pride set for her.

If the man took it into his head to seek some sort of retribution, he could easily shake the ground she stood on, and might be, more importantly, that of her family. Why it had never occurred to her that the courtship was as trilling as it was dangerous, she did not know. However, it was in the past. If she could congratulate herself for one thing, that was it. She had managed to thoroughly repulse the man, she was certain. She just hoped he was not the sort to come seeking vengeance over words.

The mare snorted beneath her, the muscles in her back straining, as if in answer to an unasked question. Lyanna patted her neck gently and looked up at the skies. The darkness had begun vanishing, slightly parting for the birth of a new day, warm colours bleeding over a dark canvas. “A new days has come,” she told her sole companion, allowing her eyes to linger on the minute details of oranges and pinks clashing together, their row chasing the inky blackness of the previous hours. “Beautiful, is it not?” She drew in a breath, lungs filling to the brim with fresh, cool air.

Such a morning was how all mornings ought to be, calm and cool, allowing for relaxation. Lyanna tried to remember the last time she had felt so at ease. It surprised her that she could not find such an instance. In the tumult sneaking off with Benjen to clash wooden swords together and bettering her skills by riding at rings and hiding from father her activities there had certainly been a flurry of excitement, her blood pumping, roaring through her veins. But she had not felt at ease. Digging deeper, Lyanna forced her mind to search for other glimpses of such a swell of emotions as the one she now faced. Once again she was frustrated in her attempts. Might be it was one of those things buried too deep to dislodge and admire. She sighed. Or might be she had never been at ease. But such a thought was as impossible as it was ridiculous.

“What do you think?” she asked her mare’s opinion as if the beast might suddenly produce words.

“I think I have before me the dearest sight,” a masculine voice said from somewhere, close, behind her, startling Lyanna, which in turn made the mare whinny. “A bit early to be out and about, my lady.”

She glanced over her shoulder, steadying her horse. The sight she met could hardly be put into words which made sense. One single man stood in the middle of the path, tall as any of the surrounding trees and twice as dangerous as any of the wolves no doubt lurking about. She recognised him though she’d never seen his face. She knew him by mere presence and that worried her beyond belief. Lyanna turned her horse around, half decided to run him over. Or run herself into a bank of snow to wake up.

He approached her without inhibition, his strides evenly matched, the three-headed dragon gracing his shoulder glinting in the light of dawn. He caught the reins which she had let go of, looking up into her face. “Anyone could happen by.”

“This is my home,” she pointed out, her voice oddly flat. She thought she would break apart before him for certain. “I can ride whenever I please.” He had the gall to smile. Not a smirk suffused with arrogance and assurance, but an amused upturn of the lips, as if he were hanging on her words. She waited as well, to see what he would do.

“Shan’t you ask me why I have come?” How a man took over a women’s life in such a short span of time. Lyanna’s lips parted, the very question on the tip of her tongue. And then she remembered.

“I neither care, nor wish to remain a moment longer in your presence.” Deliberately she left out his proper title. “Pray get off the path.” Her mare moved uncertainly but was stopped short in her track. “I said –“

“I heard you.” And despite that he still lifted her out of her saddle amid her strong protests and a few undignified shrieks. He placed her on her feet before him. How much taller he was. Lyanna looked up into his face, sudden worry crawling into her stomach, tying a hard knot there. “But listen to me for a moment as well. And if after you still do not wish to speak to me, I shall go.” His hand was upon her, cold fingers covering the entirety of the back of her hand. She would have walked past him were it not for the spark she felt.

“Speak then,” she ordered bristly, trying to pull her hand free. He relinquished it on the second attempt and invited her to walk with him. The very last thing she wanted to do was move, but the cold weather would not be kind to them if they kept still in it for long. So grabbing the reins of her mare, Lyanna led the beast along, making sure her head stood between her and Rhaegar. At the very least she could have that much protection.

“I never meant to cause you pain,” he began and her heart thumped in her chest, a familiar chorus.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Restless Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update de sesiune :))

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some people were open books one could read through with such ease any pretence would raise suspicion almost immediately. Others were better at playing pretence. However, a gross lack of experience would foil their attempts. Rhaegar suspected that learned behaviours which she knew yielded results were among the first in Lyanna’s arsenal when it came to arguing her point. As matters stood, her ignorance regarding what turned him left the girl thoroughly vulnerable to him. She wanted to get closer and slink away at the same time, her gait uneven as a result, and yet she kept her back straight and her head proudly raised, commanding his respect. What a contradiction she was, scared and brave.

“Has your brother produced the paragon he’s promised?” he questioned softly, his tale at an end. Lyanna had listened, fiddling with a piece of string all the way through to the point in which his father had discovered Rhaegar’s attempted courtship. At that she’d allowed the string to fall and be lost from her sight. Her eyes flashed. “I will challenge him, if he exists.”

“You assume I would be won by weapons.” She said it as if she thought he knew no better. He, on the other hand, suspected she expected him to beg her favour back. As indomitable as she, he would never to any such thing. “I have no wish to wed. Neither you, Your Grace, nor any other man.”

“Why not? If there is no other man and your brother has yet to promise you to anyone, why not be my bride?” Her lips parted. Silence stretched out between them. Was she considering his words? “If anything, should it not be you holding me to me word?”

“Your word? What good is your word against the King’s?” Not entirely unthinking. Rhaegar had to give her a point. “If this is an attempt to go against your family’s wishes then I desire no part of it. I am not anyone’s amusement.”

“I assure you, I never once thought of you as mere amusement. I am sincere, my lady.” Her frown deepened. “Is there naught I can do to convince you?” She looked away from his towards the stretching road. He waited on her, willing her silently to come to a decision on her own.

“I do not think it is what you can do for me, but rather what you would be willing to do for me. I have already paid a heavy price.” Of course, the death of her father. Rhaegar gave a slow nod and reached out for her. “But that, Your Grace, begs the question: do you desire a wife or a princess?” Ands now she was playing games with him.

“A wife,” he answered without hesitation, not entirely unaware of the nature of her query. “My wife. In all honesty, my lady, you made a promise to me as well. Therefore, let the both of us keep out oaths and come with me.”

“Where?” Her fingers touched against her palm gently, the tip of her nails scratching his skin softly as he moved in closer. He enjoyed the feel of it for a few moments, keeping in mind that to her it might well be a confusing mess.

“You said you want to see the world. We could begin in Essos. Volantis is lovely this time of the year.“ If that did not convince her then naught else would. Her fingers curled around his. “Or if Volantis is not to your liking might be somewhere even farther. Anywhere you wish to go.”

He could feel her agreement. “I still do not understand,” she said. “Do you not care for the throne?” Of course he did. It was not as if he could help it. He’d been borne to that ugly thing and it was his duty. But one might take a myriad of roads towards the same goal.

Determined not to begin their tentative agreement with a complete lie, he shook his head. “It has always been a part of my life. To say I do not care would be a lie. And an insult to your intelligence. And if I did not care what use would giving it up be?”

She agreed with a soft nod and pulled her hand away from his. “I want to see Braavos.” Hardly the most swoon-worthy of the Essosi cities, but he supposed it was just as well. Braavos would be their home then, for a little while. “But I cannot simply disappear into the night, Your Grace. And my brother would not approve of this, rightly so. It was not as if Rhaegar had expected that Eddard Stark would throw the girl in his arms. Of course he would protest. He simply had to make certain Lyanna’s decision would not be swayed if he did find out.

As for her worries, he soothed them away. “We shall leave him word.” He pulled from around his neck a thin gold chain upon which a small signet ring dangled. “This was given to me when I became Lord of Dragonstone. Use it for your seal. No one shall be able to mistake its meaning.”

She took the ring from him as he bent forth to allow her to better raise it over his head. “I will not force you, my lady. If you wish to come with me, meet me here on the morrow again. Think this over carefully.”

She hid away the token and stepped backwards, eyes upon him. “It might be Your Grace who changes your mind.” The implication behind that stung for just a moment, enough for his visage to retain some semblance of disturbance. The lady showed him little pity. She whistled after her mare and clambered atop the beast’s back.

Yet how much did he have to fear. She had agreed to come with him, after all. The battle was half-won. He watched the horse gallop away until both the mare and her mistress were a mere dot in the distance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What are you doing here?” Ned’s voice startled her out of the reverie, making Lyanna let out a small shriek. “It’s the middle of the night.” His complaint was met with a cross look and a stiff acknowledgement.

“I cannot sleep,” she offered weakly, hoping he would not question her upon the matter further. But even so, it occurred to her that if one could not sleep the might head for the library or the kitchens. The lord’s solar, however, struck out as an odd choice. “I was thinking of father, you see.”

“I do see.” Unease coloured his voice. His silhouette left the shadows. “Was it a night terror?” Not for her, not truly. Lyanna felt the weight of the signet ring hidden behind her garment and nodded her head. “Whatever did you use to do before when such visions plagued you?” How much had he missed of her life, away as he’d been? Brandon, much closer than their brother, had remained a fixture in her life even as he squired. Ned was another story entirely.

“I would sit with Benjen.” She’d never gone to father though, except for one time when she’d been a few winters old. He had simply wrapped her out in a blanket of fur and taken her back to the bedchamber in which she was supposed to sleep. There were a great many topics her father had allowed her to expound upon, many interests she was encouraged in pursuing. But for every one of them there was something she was not allowed to do. The more she thought about him, the remoter father’s figure became.

“Sit with me instead,” her brother invited after a moment’s hesitation. She accepted, more to assuage the her own conscience. She would leave come morning and she could not bring herself to say that to his face. In truth, Lyanna had decided her fate the moment she clapped eyes on Rhaegar. If he had come for her than he had to want her. And she certainly wanted him. Loved him, even; or rather loved him enough to disregard a lot else in her life for him.

She followed Ned as he led them to the chambers he’d assumed for his own in the end. Lyanna sat down upon the edge of the bed and smiled at him. “I always used to wonder why it was that father would hardly allow any of us in this room after mother’s death. Do you suppose he missed her that much? Did they ever seem to be so in love?”

“I can’t rightly recall,” he replied after a moment of silence. “But they seemed pleased with one another at any given moment. Does it matter if they loved one another or not? Love hardly has aught to do with the likes of us.” It was the way he said it rather than the fact that he said it which rankled. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought it might be nice if they were. I want you to be as pleased with Catelyn Tully as father was with mother.” But more than that she wanted some form of absolution. His confusion was almost palpable. “It is not wrong of me to wish you well, brother mine.”

“Nay that it isn’t,” came his swift agreement. “You were hardly thrilled with Lady Catelyn.” Lyanna shrugged. It was the truth. Yet even Catelyn Tully was better than nothing. She held her hand out in invitation, the other patting the space next to her. “Will there ever come a day when I understand you?”

“I hope not.” He still sat down despite her answer. “You are much too tired to attempt such a feat.” They remained seated together, shoulder to shoulder. Lyanna leaned in, pressing into his side. “I am tired myself, so I have very little understanding as well. We ought to rest a bit.”

The sooner he slept the sooner she could slink off to her own bedchamber and spend a restless night in wait of dawn. Once the first light spilled forth, she would have little else to hide from him. A part of her wished she could see his reaction when he’d finally read her letter. Had it been Brandon instead of him, Lyanna was certain the situation would have been completely different. Would she have told Brandon about Rhaegar? She rather thought not. It was all the planning that was making her daft.

Ned made a sound of agreement. “And on the heel of that, it would be best if you returned to your own bedchamber, sister.” He touched her shoulder gently and she climbed to her feet. “Unless, of course, you would rather stay here with me.” It sounded as if he jested. And yet, something in his face told her the exact opposite.

She chuckled and pushed against his shoulder gently by manner of deflection. “You say the most outrageous things.” He caught her by the wrist and pulled her forth. He’d meant it as another jest, but Lyanna, not paying attention, ended up taking both of them down. “And you do the most outrageous things as well.“ His arm wounded up around her waist, holding her against him. “Truly, Ned, let go or I shall take your bed for mine own.”

He laughed, not seeming to mind the idea. But he did let her go and she repaired towards her bedchamber.

There, just as she had predicted, the night wore on and she slept not a wink. It was only her and the dark thoughts plaguing her. Yet with those came hopeful notions, enticing her with promises of joy. If only the gods would be kind and not place other obstacles in her path.

When it came time to follow through with the plan, she tried her best to not act in a suspicious manner. Far harder to do than to put into thought. It could only come to her aid that she had incorporated riding into her daily routine, for all the help it provided.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to see then stats go down.


	7. Last Shoe To Fall

 

 

 

 

 

 

The piddling amount of coin stacked upon the smooth surface of an old oak desk gave pause to wandering eyes. Despite the utter scarcity, fingers stretched out and collected every last copper coin, hiding them away in a small pouch. It felt wrong, and Lyanna imagined it would continue to feel so for the longest time, to be standing there in the middle of the chamber, effectively robbing the house coffers. It was still theft no matter the amount she took. But for the life of her she could not go without taking something beside her cloak, although she had an inkling that the Prince would provide.

She had been to Benjen’s bedchamber earlier, wishing to see her youngest brother for the last time. The boy had not woken with the scratch of her shoes on the floors, not even had he stirred, and despite knowing it was for the best, she could not stop herself from feeling saddened. Ned she did not have the courage to go to, thus she’d resorted to leaving him only a letter and a signet ring, certain that her brother would come to understand, in time, her decision.

It was certainly true that the primary nature of her decision was rooted in desire, but Lyanna could well see the advantages a union with the heir of the throne brought. Heir, as she was more than certain that while Rhaegar would indeed give her the sights he’d promised, he fully intended to return to the Seven Kingdoms. One would need wool stuffed between their ears not to know as much. So she was happy to accept the proposition he’d made and make the best of it for herself.

Lyanna made her way across the keep with slow steps, collecting what she had need of as she went. It was by no means much she took, but a few items she could fit in an apron pocket. Practicality being such an all-dictating measure she wore that much of the time, when there was no one to entertain.

Once done with her gathering, the stables greeted her. The mare father had bought her some years past raised her head as she stepped in, making a soft sound, might be considerate of other horses that still slept. Lyanna merely smiled at her and, as she did most mornings, called to her softly. “How are you this morning, girl?” She reached out, petting the dark coat with tremulous fingers. “We go a-riding, stretch out our legs for a bit.” A good bit longer than her poor mare was used to she was certain, but Lyanna could not risk taking her brother’s horse or even Benjen’s.

While her own mare was built for speed, meant to appease her tendencies but never allow her to stray too far off, the steeds her brothers had received were built for endurance. It had seemed to her a fair enough decision as she was not likely to need stamina in her most beloved pet. As matters stood, she still thought that even with the current strength of her sinewy form, the mare would not have much trouble keeping up.

She unlatched the stall door and entered the crammed space, walking towards the saddle, she continued to speak to the mare, “The sun is shining and it’s warm enough to roam the fields. You’ll like it, might be even better than I.” She might have called one of the stable hands to prepare everything for her, but the less she was seen the better, she surmised after giving the matter some thought. By no means was she to truly slink about the keep like a thief, but Lyanna should not engage others nonetheless unless it was necessary. As that did not prove to be needed, she was more than free to gallop past the gates, the sun’s first rays touching her uncovered head.

The clearing was bereft of life when she arrived. The first thought that came to her mind added a weight to her shoulders which slumped, naturally, under the heaviness. Where was the Prince? Dismounting, Lyanna tied the reins to a low-hanging branch and sat down upon a flat rock after she had pushed the thin layer of snow out of the way. Elbow of her knee, face resting on her palm she closed her eyes momentarily, allowing the flow of thoughts to take over. If, once more, she had walked into a trap of her own making, she could not return to her brother.

A point of futile pride, some might argue, when Ned was the only one likely to provide for her in such circumstances. But she’d never much cared for what others thought or said. Most of it, she surmised, came from the strong isolating element of her rearing. It was rare that she had had interactions with anyone without the North. Maester Flowers did not count as he could hardly, after so many years in her father’s service, be anything but Northerner in his approach to most everything. Everything with the exception of his name that was. When she’d first found out he was called Flowers she had been tempted to do as all children did when faced with such incongruities. Better that she had not though.

Walys Flowers had never been a man she was inordinately fond of. Even with the smooth, clean-shaved, rather handsome face, she’d found his presence disconcerting when even the most hard-hearted servant girl had mooned over the man. Shaking the thought away, Lyanna opened her eyes, bringing one hand up to shield them. Sunbeams speared through the branches, attacking her mercilessly. It took a mere few moments for her vision to regain its clarity. She removed her hand and stretched it out, splaying her fingers wide apart. Sunlight pressed against the pale appendages, wrapping around them like a glimmering ribbon. Gods, much more waiting and she would make like Rowan Gold-Tree and wrap apples in her hair.  Supposedly that would bear a tree of ice in her case.

Her imagination did not need very much to leap to an image of a frosted-over weirwood tree. Slender white branches and shrivelled red leaves, curled inwards to protect themselves from the cold. Only the cold seeped through even the best of defences. Lyanna smiled to herself. A pair of arms wrapped around her from behind. Despite knowing she expected company, Lyanna cried out at the contact, tipping to the side.

“It would be wiser to leave dreams for safer places.” The hand at her waist pulled her back. “And even wiser to pay mind to your surroundings.” Rhaegar released her, giving only a slight nudge in parting. She slid right off the boulder and shook her skirts out, the coins clinking as they clashed together.

“Your Grace,” she greeted softly, as though she had not cried out a mere few moments past. “Must you frighten me?” She turned around and stared into his face, doing her best to keep a calm mien. Within, turmoil bubbled, as quietly hissing boiling water; the pressure built and built.

Rhaegar said naught. He seemed content enough to look at her features, as though studying her features would reveal to him some secret. Lyanna certainly hoped that was not the case. It was difficult enough to maintain her composure with that sure, blazing gaze. The heat of it was very near scorching. She blinked slowly, trepidation crawling an easy path down her spine, sliding from nook to cranny.   

He held one hand out in invitation, the naked skin uncommonly pale. Her own eyes dipped towards the long, elegant fingers, slightly apart. Tentatively, she allowed herself to reach out, bending her digits. The grip was firm and slightly moist from the light snow. He neither recoiled, nor clasped her any harder than before. Lyanna closed the gap between them by stepping upon the boulder and coming down at his side.     

“It was not my intention,” he said at long last, not letting go. It nearly made her smile. There had been no inflection in those words. Might be had had indeed wished to give her a bit of a fright. She would forgive it. After all, it happened to be the least frightening scare she’d received lately. The gods knew she did not wish for aught more severe to cause a few heartbeats to skip. “Did you wait long for me?”

Pathetically, she wanted to whisper that she’d waited moon turns. But that would not cast her in a most favourable light. And it would do very little for her pride. Better to shake her head and leave matters as they were. “Nay. There was barely time to grow cold.”

Her mare nickered softly, the neighing breaking the moment. Lyanna looked over her shoulder, resisting the urge to shush her. “Come then. I should hate for the chill to bite in truth.” And then it seemed to be no more use to linger. Ned would undoubtedly wake soon and find her letter.  

The Prince released her hand, the loss ringing through her as though it were a tangible ill. He did not seem to notice the effect he had on her though. “I wrote to my brother, Your Grace.” It was no news, for he’d instructed her to do aught in the manner. It was better than silence though.

“He squired with Robert Baratheon, as I recall.” Lyanna confirmed. “I trust he shall know how to best react to it.” Trust that was slightly misplaced, if Lyanna were completely honest. It was not as though she trusted little in her brother; but Rhaegar did not know her brother.

“Aye, for Lord Arryn.” Her mare pounded upon the frosted loam, mist forming around her gaping mouth. “Your Grace, I do believe it would be better to leave now.” He nodded, hand searching hers out once more. Lyanna allowed him to lead her to the mare and help her up.

Being that he could easily pick her up, she did not blink when she felt his hands around her waist, thumbs pressing into her sides, pressure building under the points he touched. She enjoyed the feeling, cocking her head to the side. Their eyes held, the world falling apart all around for a second time. It was exceedingly queer; the meeting of two pairs of eyes should not have the necessary force to render the whole of existence into blankness. But it did. Outside of him and her, she did not believe there was a soul about. Disconcerting though it was to be rendered impervious to stimuli from the surrounding environment, the impossible had proven to be easily achievable.

Naturally, such states not being meant to last, the reverie was broken, this time by the arrival of the two squires, from somewhere ahead. They were already mounted, leading another horse between them. Rhaegar’s steed. Unlike her palfrey, the Prince’s horse was a courser, with a shiny reddish coat and slim muscled legs. It was might be the most beautiful  thing she’d ever seen. The animal shook its head, ears twitching as her mare neighed at their approach.

“Your Grace, my lady,” the first greeted. He was the one who had given her the message. Lyanna nodded lightly, eyes moving to the other young man. “The road is clear. We shall make good time if we leave now.”

“Still no manners, Lonmouth. I am most disappointed,” Rhaegar deadpanned. But the squire took it for jest. He laughed a dry laugh and waved his hand.

“My lady, these two are my squires.” Lyanna blinked. He’d mentioned them in his letters. “The laughing fool is Richard Lonmouth. And he,” there he paused to nod at the other, “is Myles Mooton.”

“I have heard much about you,” she said evenly. “My apologies for not recognising you on the spot.” This she addressed to the still smiling Richard Lonmouth.

“There is no need for any of it,” he waved her apology away with a dismissive air. “My lady was taken aback, I am certain. ‘Tis understandable.”     

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
